Of the various forms of decadence manifest in the poetical art of the present age, none strikes
more harshly on our sensibilities than the alarming decline in that harmonious regularity of
metre which adorned the poetry of our immediate ancestors.That metre itself forms an essential part of all true poetry is a principle
which not even the assertions of an Aristotle or the pronouncements of a Plato can disestablish.
As old a critic as Dionysius of Halicarnassus and as modern a philosopher as Hegel have each
affirmed that versification in poetry is not alone a necessary attribute, but the very foundation
as well; Hegel, indeed, placing metre above metaphorical imagination as the essence of all poetic
creation.Science can likewise trace the metrical instinct from the very infancy of mankind,
or even beyond, to the pre-human age of the apes. Nature is in itself an unending succession
of regular impulses. The steady recurrence of the seasons and of the moonlight, the coming and
going of the day, the ebb and flow of the tides, the beating of the heart and pulses, the tread
of the feet in walking, and countless other phenomena of like regularity, have all combined
to inculcate in the human brain a rhythmic sense which is as manifest in the most uncultivated,
as in the most polished of peoples. Metre, therefore, is no such false artifice as most exponents
of radicalism would have us believe, but is instead a natural and inevitable embellishment to
poesy, which succeeding ages should develop and refine, rather than maim or destroy.Like other instincts, the metric sense has taken on different aspects among
different races. Savages shew it in its simplest form while dancing to the sound of primitive
drums; barbarians display it in their religious and other chantings; civilised peoples utilise
it for their formal poetry, either as measured quantity, like that of Greek and Roman verse,
or as measured accentual stress, like that of our own English verse. Precision of metre is thus
no mere display of meretricious ornament, but a logical evolution from eminently natural sources.It is the contention of the ultra-modern poet, as enunciated by Mrs. J. W.
Renshaw in her recent article on “The Autocracy of Art” (The Looking Glass
for May), that the truly inspired bard must chant forth his feelings independently of form or
language, permitting each changing impulse to alter the rhythm of his lay, and blindly resigning
his reason to the “fine frenzy” of his mood. This contention is of course founded
upon the assumption that poetry is super-intellectual; the expression of a “soul”
which outranks the mind and its precepts. Now while avoiding the impeachment of this dubious
theory, we must needs remark, that the laws of Nature cannot so easily be outdistanced. However
much true poesy may overtop the produce of the brain, it must still be affected by natural laws,
which are universal and inevitable. Wherefore it is possible for the critic to assume the attitude
of the scientist, and to perceive the various clearly defined natural forms through which the
emotions seek expressions. Indeed, we feel even unconsciously the fitness of certain types of
metre for certain types of thought, and in perusing a crude or irregular poem are often abruptly
repelled by the unwarranted variations made by the bard, either through his ignorance or his
perverted taste. We are naturally shocked at the clothing of a grave subject in anapaestic metre,
or the treatment of a long and lofty theme in short, choppy lines. This latter defect is what
repels us so much from Conington’s really scholarly translation of the Aeneid.What the radicals so wantonly disregard in their eccentric performances is
unity of thought. Amidst their wildly repeated leaps from one rough metre to another, they ignore
the underlying uniformity of each of their poems. Scene may change; atmosphere may vary; yet
one poem cannot but carry one definite message, and to suit this ultimate and fundamental message
must one metre be selected and sustained. To accommodate the minor inequalities of tone in a
poem, one regular metre will amply lend itself to diversity. Our chief, but now annoyingly neglected
measure, the heroic couplet, is capable of taking on infinite shades of expression by the right
selection and sequence of words, and by the proper placing of the caesura or pause in each line.
Dr. Blair, in his 38th lecture, explains and illustrates with admirable perspicuity the importance
of the caesura’s location in varying the flow of heroic verse. It is also possible to
lend variety to a poem by using very judiciously occasional feet of a metre different from that
of the body of the work. This is generally done without disturbing the syllabification, and
it in no way impairs or obscures the dominant measure.Most amusing of all the claims of the radical is the assertion that true poetic
fervour can never be confined to regular metre; that the wild-eyed, long-haired rider of Pegasus
must inflict upon a suffering public in unaltered form the vague conceptions which flit in noble
chaos through his exalted soul. While it is perfectly obvious that the hour of rare inspiration
must be improved without the hindrance of grammars or rhyming dictionaries, it is no less obvious
that the succeeding hour of calmer contemplation may very profitably be devoted to amendment
and polishing. The “language of the heart” must be clarified and made intelligible
to other hearts, else its purport will forever be confined to its creator. If natural laws of
metrical construction be wilfully set aside, the reader’s attention will be distracted
from the soul of the poem to its uncouth and ill-fitting dress. The more nearly perfect the
metre, the less conspicuous its presence; hence if the poet desires supreme consideration for
his matter, he should make his verses so smooth that the sense may never be interrupted.The ill effect of metrical laxity on the younger generation of poets is enormous.
These latest suitors of the Muse, not yet sufficiently trained to distinguish between their
own artless crudities and the cultivated monstrosities of the educated but radical bard, come
to regard with distrust the orthodox critics, and to believe that no grammatical, rhetorical,
or metrical skill is necessary to their own development. The result cannot but be a race of
churlish, cacophonous hybrids, whose amorphous outcries will waver uncertainly betwixt prose
and verse, absorbing the vices of both and the virtues of neither.When proper consideration shall be taken of the perfect naturalness of polished
metre, a wholesome reaction against the present chaos must inevitably occur; so that the few
remaining disciples of conservatism and good taste may justly entertain one last, lingering
hope of hearing from modern lyres the stately heroics of Pope, the majestic blank verse of Thomson,
the terse octosyllabics of Swift, the sonorous quatrains of Gray, and the lively anapaests of
Sheridan and Moore.